Special Christmas gift: Paying it forward

Published: Monday, December 3, 2012 at 4:30 a.m.

Last Modified: Friday, November 30, 2012 at 2:08 p.m.

Standing in the checkout line just ahead of me, a young woman glances through the book she's getting, a large, thick tome with the letters GED splayed across the front.

“Are you planning to take the GED?” I ask as nonchalantly as I can. There is no way she can know how completely I understand that she is at the beginning of a long road that will take years to traverse.

“Yes,” she answers, her dark eyes looking tired and doubtful. She glances down again at the book, its sheer thickness a challenge before she even hits the introduction. I understand her hesitancy, remembering as if it were yesterday that long-ago afternoon I stood in line at County College of Morris, registering for a single class, my three young children squirreling around me.

Dressed simply, her hair is platted in dozens of fine braids, gathered in a neat cluster at the nape of her neck. Her young daughter is busily looking at every brightly colored children's book on a table piled high with them, conveniently located right next to the checkout line.

“What's your name?” I ask.

She checks me out for a moment before answering, “Constance.”

“I'm going to pray for you, Constance,” I say as matter of factly as I can. “You can do this, you know.”

She looks at me warily but seems to relax when she realizes I'm not kidding. “I don't know,” she says tiredly, and shakes her head as she looks at the imposing book in her hand.

“The GED comes in about five different sections,” I begin, hoping to make it sound simple, knowing full well it is never easy to go back to school when life has hurried on and there are kids to take care of, a job to hold down and a home to keep up, let alone doing homework yourself after you've helped your kids do theirs. Oh, how well I remember.

She nods uncertainly, trying to picture it in her mind's eye. “One bite at a time,” I assure her. “You can do it.”

By this time, her daughter is looking at me. I smile at her, hoping to add a tiny drop of sweetness to this memory of an excursion to the bookstore with Mom. Her mother doesn't realize it, but at this very moment she is teaching her daughter to finish school. To keep trying. To go back if you have to and pick up where you left off. To go on to college. To read, to learn, to succeed.

“Do you like to read?” This is the heart of the matter, the point on which everything else depends.

“Not really,” she sighs. “It's a little hard for me.”

By this time, her little one is eyeing a brightly colored cardboard book cut in the shape of a butterfly. I smile as she opens and closes it, almost willing the butterfly to spread its wings and fly. She catches me looking at her and smiles back. “Can you believe how incredibly cool this book is?” her deep chocolate eyes ask me. If only there were some way to bottle that innocent enthusiasm for books and hand it to her mother.

The little one has inspired me. I turn to Constance. “Read something just for fun,” I suggest casually. “Something you enjoy. Magazines, romance novels, anything.” She looks at me doubtfully, the tome in her hand still as heavy as it was five minutes ago.

“Can I help someone?” the clerk asks crisply. Constance smiles back at me and steps forward. Her daughter, her own braids bound with small, clear beads at the ends, gently strokes a short row of books as she waits. Then, quickly, as her mother is paying, she pops over to a small kiosk of children's Christmas books.

“OK, let's go,” Constance nods. But the little one can't bring herself to leave without one last sales pitch. “Look,” she whispers almost reverently. Her small hands caress a book. Her mother looks at the book and purses her lips. “Yes, it's nice,” she admits wistfully, “but we have to go, honey.”

I recognize that look. I know that feeling. I can still see three small children sprawling out through the college bookstore, longingly eyeing the few trinkets they had on display as I carefully considered which textbooks I could afford. During my years on welfare, there was no money left over for so much as a candy bar.

Constance takes her daughter's hand and guides her gently to the door. As my eyes follow them, I can't bring myself to simply pay and leave. “Can I help you, ma'am?” the clerk asks me again.

I sprint toward the door, “Constance …” I wave the man behind me forward, “You go ahead.” As I catch up to her, Constance stops, mid exit, and her daughter looks up at me quizzically. “Would you mind if I get your little girl just one book?” I ask.

The little one's eyes jump to her mother's face. “Say yes, Mom,” they plead, her small frame tingling with anticipation. Her mother hesitates, then nods. The little one is back at the kiosk faster than Santa can say Rudolph.

With longing eyes, the little girl takes in the choices in front of her, landing finally on an animal book in which one thick cardboard page after another has a cutout so that each new animal on each new page is sporting the same pair of eyes.

She looks at me with excitement as I pick it up and head to the register.

Soon I am stooping in front of her. “Ask Mommy to take you to the library. They have the most wonderful books there, and you can read as many as you want,” I say, handing her the bag. Her dark chocolate eyes sparkle at me.

The nursing textbooks I'd gotten at the college bookstore so many years ago had just paid for themselves all over again.

As I leave the store, a soft drizzle shimmers through the parking lot lights, blanketing the evening sky with a warm glow. Then, just as I'm about to get into my car, two figures, one my size and one pint size, run across the parking lot, back toward me, holding hands.

“Tell her, honey,” Constance says, looking down at her little girl. “Thank you,” the little girl, still clutching her bag tightly, says as she smiles up at me.

Her mother steps forward and grabs me in a bear hug. “Thank you so much,” she whispers.

I lean down to the little one beside her, “What's your name?”

“Erin,” she smiles shyly.

“You're welcome, Erin,” I say, wishing there were some way to explain to one so young that she is the one giving the gift. Mother and daughter clasp hands again and dash off under the streetlight, into the mist.

“Constance,” I call out. She turns back. “I won't forget …”

She nods and smiles, and for the briefest moment, another young mother, tired but happy, leaves a college bookstore laden not only with textbooks but with drawing paper, Conte crayons, erasers and colored pencils … and three candy bars.

<p>Not all of the stories in Barnes & Noble are written on paper.</p><p>Standing in the checkout line just ahead of me, a young woman glances through the book she's getting, a large, thick tome with the letters GED splayed across the front.</p><p>“Are you planning to take the GED?” I ask as nonchalantly as I can. There is no way she can know how completely I understand that she is at the beginning of a long road that will take years to traverse.</p><p>“Yes,” she answers, her dark eyes looking tired and doubtful. She glances down again at the book, its sheer thickness a challenge before she even hits the introduction. I understand her hesitancy, remembering as if it were yesterday that long-ago afternoon I stood in line at County College of Morris, registering for a single class, my three young children squirreling around me.</p><p>Dressed simply, her hair is platted in dozens of fine braids, gathered in a neat cluster at the nape of her neck. Her young daughter is busily looking at every brightly colored children's book on a table piled high with them, conveniently located right next to the checkout line.</p><p>“What's your name?” I ask.</p><p>She checks me out for a moment before answering, “Constance.”</p><p>“I'm going to pray for you, Constance,” I say as matter of factly as I can. “You can do this, you know.”</p><p>She looks at me warily but seems to relax when she realizes I'm not kidding. “I don't know,” she says tiredly, and shakes her head as she looks at the imposing book in her hand.</p><p>“The GED comes in about five different sections,” I begin, hoping to make it sound simple, knowing full well it is never easy to go back to school when life has hurried on and there are kids to take care of, a job to hold down and a home to keep up, let alone doing homework yourself after you've helped your kids do theirs. Oh, how well I remember.</p><p>She nods uncertainly, trying to picture it in her mind's eye. “One bite at a time,” I assure her. “You can do it.”</p><p>By this time, her daughter is looking at me. I smile at her, hoping to add a tiny drop of sweetness to this memory of an excursion to the bookstore with Mom. Her mother doesn't realize it, but at this very moment she is teaching her daughter to finish school. To keep trying. To go back if you have to and pick up where you left off. To go on to college. To read, to learn, to succeed.</p><p>“Do you like to read?” This is the heart of the matter, the point on which everything else depends.</p><p>“Not really,” she sighs. “It's a little hard for me.”</p><p>By this time, her little one is eyeing a brightly colored cardboard book cut in the shape of a butterfly. I smile as she opens and closes it, almost willing the butterfly to spread its wings and fly. She catches me looking at her and smiles back. “Can you believe how incredibly cool this book is?” her deep chocolate eyes ask me. If only there were some way to bottle that innocent enthusiasm for books and hand it to her mother.</p><p>The little one has inspired me. I turn to Constance. “Read something just for fun,” I suggest casually. “Something you enjoy. Magazines, romance novels, anything.” She looks at me doubtfully, the tome in her hand still as heavy as it was five minutes ago.</p><p>“Can I help someone?” the clerk asks crisply. Constance smiles back at me and steps forward. Her daughter, her own braids bound with small, clear beads at the ends, gently strokes a short row of books as she waits. Then, quickly, as her mother is paying, she pops over to a small kiosk of children's Christmas books.</p><p>“OK, let's go,” Constance nods. But the little one can't bring herself to leave without one last sales pitch. “Look,” she whispers almost reverently. Her small hands caress a book. Her mother looks at the book and purses her lips. “Yes, it's nice,” she admits wistfully, “but we have to go, honey.”</p><p>I recognize that look. I know that feeling. I can still see three small children sprawling out through the college bookstore, longingly eyeing the few trinkets they had on display as I carefully considered which textbooks I could afford. During my years on welfare, there was no money left over for so much as a candy bar.</p><p>Constance takes her daughter's hand and guides her gently to the door. As my eyes follow them, I can't bring myself to simply pay and leave. “Can I help you, ma'am?” the clerk asks me again.</p><p>I sprint toward the door, “Constance …” I wave the man behind me forward, “You go ahead.” As I catch up to her, Constance stops, mid exit, and her daughter looks up at me quizzically. “Would you mind if I get your little girl just one book?” I ask.</p><p>The little one's eyes jump to her mother's face. “Say yes, Mom,” they plead, her small frame tingling with anticipation. Her mother hesitates, then nods. The little one is back at the kiosk faster than Santa can say Rudolph.</p><p>With longing eyes, the little girl takes in the choices in front of her, landing finally on an animal book in which one thick cardboard page after another has a cutout so that each new animal on each new page is sporting the same pair of eyes.</p><p>She looks at me with excitement as I pick it up and head to the register.</p><p>Soon I am stooping in front of her. “Ask Mommy to take you to the library. They have the most wonderful books there, and you can read as many as you want,” I say, handing her the bag. Her dark chocolate eyes sparkle at me.</p><p>The nursing textbooks I'd gotten at the college bookstore so many years ago had just paid for themselves all over again.</p><p>As I leave the store, a soft drizzle shimmers through the parking lot lights, blanketing the evening sky with a warm glow. Then, just as I'm about to get into my car, two figures, one my size and one pint size, run across the parking lot, back toward me, holding hands.</p><p>“Tell her, honey,” Constance says, looking down at her little girl. “Thank you,” the little girl, still clutching her bag tightly, says as she smiles up at me.</p><p>Her mother steps forward and grabs me in a bear hug. “Thank you so much,” she whispers.</p><p>I lean down to the little one beside her, “What's your name?”</p><p>“Erin,” she smiles shyly.</p><p>“You're welcome, Erin,” I say, wishing there were some way to explain to one so young that she is the one giving the gift. Mother and daughter clasp hands again and dash off under the streetlight, into the mist.</p><p>“Constance,” I call out. She turns back. “I won't forget …”</p><p>She nods and smiles, and for the briefest moment, another young mother, tired but happy, leaves a college bookstore laden not only with textbooks but with drawing paper, Conte crayons, erasers and colored pencils … and three candy bars.</p>